


Rend

by scrub456



Series: Reversal [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Canon Divergence - The Reichenbach Fall, Canon-Typical Violence, Case Fic, Dialogue Heavy, Explosions, Gen, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Mentioned John Watson, POV Sherlock Holmes, Post-Reichenbach, Reichenbach Reversal, Sherlock isn't coping as well as he thinks he is, Snipers, Triggers, original character death, whispers of conspiracy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-06
Updated: 2016-04-27
Packaged: 2018-05-30 19:53:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6438049
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scrub456/pseuds/scrub456
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>“Wha… w-what is this? When was this taken?” Sherlock stared at the photo. Somewhere in his logical mind he knew he should be studying all the faces, but there was only one face he cared about. </i>That<i> face.</i></p><p> </p><p>  <i>Sherlock looked up to see Greg watching him. “What is this?” he demanded again.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Wound Reopened

**Author's Note:**

  * For [notjustmom](https://archiveofourown.org/users/notjustmom/gifts).



> **REND** \- _to separate into parts with force or violence; to tear apart, split, or divide violently in grief or rage_
> 
> ******  
> This story is for notjustmom because frankly, I wouldn't have been able to power through it without her daily harassment... uh, I mean encouragement (this has been one awful month). She let me word vomit my sticking point, she gave me suggestions, and sent me pictures of pretty things (ahem, Ben and Martin) to look at for inspiration. (((HUG))) Thanks so much, my friend.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"Sherlock, I need your help with this case. This is... These people knew John. They loved him. And, they need help." Greg's face looked grim._
> 
>  
> 
> _"I'll help."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to [notjustmom](http://archiveofourown.org/users/notjustmom/pseuds/notjustmom), without whom I am certain I would not have finished this chapter today. But she sent me a photo of Sherlock wearing the Purple Shirt of Inspiration, and inspire it did.

The scrape of a key as someone fumbled at the front door pierced the silence and pulled the consulting detective’s attention from the notebook he studied. Clearly this unwelcome intrusion was not someone with malicious intent; Sherlock Holmes knew well the sound of a lock being picked. The visitor would not be Mycroft, as his entrance would be silent and unexpected. Sherlock checked the time. 2:13 AM. Mrs. Hudson had retired several hours ago. 

Only one other person had a key.

Sherlock sat silently, listening intently with a smug sneer on his face. Lestrade fancied himself light on his feet, but his approach up to the flat presented every evidence to the contrary. Sherlock heard every creak of every floor board. He rolled his eyes in disgust as he heard the DI trip on a step, then utter a string of curses. It was clear the man was attempting to be quiet so as not to disturb the slumbering landlady downstairs. He was failing miserably.

After a quick knock on the door, Detective Inspector Lestrade stepped into the sitting room, bringing with him the bone chilling dampness of a bleak London night. A heavy sigh bore the weight of the day; his countenance was one of sheer exhaustion. Sherlock thought perhaps the word haggard was appropriate. Dark circles drooped under his eyes, and the stubble on his face was at least in its second day of growth. The DI dropped his soggy hat onto the coffee table, and shrugged off his still dripping coat. Sherlock noted the care with which Lestrade pulled a chair away from the table upon which to drape his coat. It was John’s preferred perch. He made sure no errant moisture made its way to the stacks of papers and notebooks the good doctor had left behind in his death, and that no sudden motion disturbed the makeshift shrine.

The weary visitor sat gingerly in the armchair across from Sherlock. _John’s chair,_ the sentimental (maddeningly so, at times) part of Sherlock's brain supplied, entirely unsolicited. Greg toed off his soaked shoes without untying them, and placed them on the fireplace hearth. He stretched his legs out straight in front of him, pointing his frozen feet toward the fire, revealing the legs of his trousers to be drenched and mud spattered up to his knees. As he leaned back and sunk into the chair, he groaned and covered his face with both hands. Sherlock watched the now familiar, and exceptionally tedious, ritual with resigned interest.

It had been five months since James Moriarty had arranged for Saint Bartholomew’s to be blown up (according to the physical evidence, though there were still details that troubled and eluded Sherlock), not to mention killing himself just for the sake of escaping his boredom. Five months of DI Lestrade attempting to become _friend_ Greg. Five months. _Only five_ months since John Watson had been ripped from his life. Five months since Moriarty had killed his best friend, a final, unexpected, _uncharacteristic_ , though successful, attempt to deliver on the promise that he would burn the heart right out of Sherlock Holmes.

It felt as though it had been an eternity since he had last shared a moment with his friend. Yet some days Sherlock would go about his day without thinking of John’s absence once, fully anticipating the moment the doctor would return from the surgery so they could resume work on a case. It always seemed to take too many hours for the realization to dawn. Those days, despite himself, Sherlock was thankful Lestrade... _Greg_ \-- the man who had helped him through the other darkest period of his life -- had promised to be a friend, to be present for him, to remind him that needles and vials did not provide answers, and to assist him in destroying the criminal network of the man responsible for killing John.

The first time Lestrade dropped by uninvited and attempted to make himself comfortable (he had dared to hang his coat on the hook where John's coat had once hung, and then had the audacity to adjust the Union Jack cushion before sitting in John's armchair), Sherlock had suffered a few moments of complete loss of control, cursing and hurling insults, not to mention books and anything else within reach. How _dare_ he attempt to take John’s place? Over time though Sherlock grew to appreciate the company, and slowly realized Lestrade was not attempting to _replace_ John.

Quite the contrary.

Lestrade respected John’s legacy so deeply, he took great efforts to preserve the sanctity of the good doctor’s influence in Sherlock’s life. Lestr... Greg... had also proven he was not nearly as dull as Sherlock had originally deduced him to be, and he had become a worthy accomplice. He was no John Watson -- Sherlock suspected no one would ever live up to the standard set by his late friend -- but if he had to rely on another human being, he was grateful that Greg had offered to step into the void.

Once he could tell the DI had calmed down, his body had relaxed noticeably and his breathing had evened out, though his face remained buried in his hands, Sherlock cleared his throat. “Tea?”

Dropping his hands to the arms of the chair, Greg sighed. “I don’t suppose you have anything a bit stronger? I don’t think tea will cut it tonight.”

“If you mean alcohol, no, my apologies, I have none on hand. A rather pressing experiment required the last of my supply. However, if you’d prefer," He pulled his mobile from his pocket, "I can have something significantly less legal available within just a few moments…” Sherlock cut his offer short when he noticed Greg had once again covered his face with his hands. “I’ll take that as a no.”

“How about coffee? Do you have any coffee?” Greg asked. “I’ll even make it.” He sat up more fully in the chair.

Sherlock thought for a moment. “I believe so. I don’t drink it often, but John always keeps some…” Sherlock realized his slip the same moment Greg did. It had been weeks since he had spoken of John in the present. He thought he had finally rid himself of the annoying error that only seemed to make him feel small and awkward, cause Mrs. Hudson to cry, or, as the case was now, force Greg to use deep breathing techniques. “ _Kept_ ,” he corrected himself with a cough, “John always _kept_ coffee… For late nights and for the clients who prefer it over tea.”

Embarrassed by his mistake, Sherlock rose swiftly from his chair and stepped to the kitchen. “I’ll make the coffee, though I cannot promise it will be palatable.”

“I just need to warm up. Besides, I don’t know that anything could be any worse than what the guys make in the break room at the Yard.” Greg replied with a yawn. "And try not to drug it, yeah?" Sherlock scoffed in response.

After much searching for the coffee, _of course John would have made space for it in the cupboard right above the coffee maker_ , and a brief internet tutorial on how to work this particular model of coffee maker, the steaming brown liquid began to trickle into the carafe. “Do you take sugar or milk?” Sherlock asked. He noted by the way Greg’s posture straightened that the DI was surprised by the question. It was true, Sherlock had not made a habit of getting to know details about Greg. He hadn’t even made an effort to recall his name before _that day_ at the hospital. But after John’s death, and the realization that there was so very much he did not know about the man he called his best friend, Sherlock acknowledged the unpleasant task of being courteous, and engaging in meaningful conversation, had its advantages.

“Uhm, no. Just black is fine, thanks,” Greg responded, as he settled back into the chair.

 _Just like John,_ Sherlock thought. Mentally shaking himself from reverie, Sherlock returned to the task at hand, making coffee for his... _friend_? Yes, friend. As the stream of coffee slowed to a drip, Sherlock reached for a mug. The one nearest the coffee maker was the striped one John had always used for his own coffee. He couldn’t bring himself to allow anyone else to enjoy it. Not yet. He left the mug to stand as sentinel over the workspace (John's RAMC mug held a place of reverence on the mantel in the sitting room, next to the skull; Sherlock had put it up out of harm's way when he realized, _almost_ too late, that he had nearly hurled the precious vessel at Greg's head) and retrieved the mug John always used for clients. He chided himself for this ridiculous sentimentality that leeched into his consciousness, muddying his daily thought processes, as he poured the coffee and returned to the sitting room.

John would surely mock him.

Sherlock gritted his teeth. Would these incessant, nagging, maudlin intrusion of emotion into his mind never cease?

“Mhm. Not bad,” Greg nodded as he sipped the steaming coffee. “Definitely better than the break room. The next time you’re at the Yard, I’m putting you on coffee detail.” He wrapped his hands around the cup for warmth, and leaned back once more.

“Greg?”

“Yeah, Sherlock?”

“Please understand, for once I intend absolutely no offense in asking this, but, _why_ are you here? Other than the obvious fact that your stakeout went poorly, and the suspect evaded your officers _yet again._ ”

Exhaling deeply, Greg shifted in the armchair to sit up straight. “Sherlock, I really need your help with this one. It... it happened. Again.”

“ _It?_ ” Sherlock over enunciated the _t_ with a snap, for emphasis. He was certain he knew what the _it_ was, but the fact that Greg’s officers could allow such a heinous crime to occur in their very presence gave him pause.

His expression one of defeat, Greg closed his eyes and nodded his confirmation. “Another shop owner was killed during an armed robbery tonight."

“You were there! You had officers in the store!” Sherlock was aware that his tone was both condescending and shrill.

“I know,” Greg hung his head, his voice thick with emotion. “I know, Sherlock. Which is why I need you on this. He’s smart. And getting bolder by the day. And…”

Sherlock raised his hand to silence the detective. “Are you suggesting that I step away from my current task of dismantling the most far reaching international crime network in the world, not to mention bringing to justice the men responsible for killing John, because you and your officers are so incompetent as to let a thief on a killing spree slip through your fingers, despite having his identification and knowing where he’s going to strike next?”

“Sherlock, wait a minute,” Greg began.

“No. Did he or did he not make his appearance at 9:35 earlier this evening?”

“He did,” Greg nodded.

“Did he, or did he not, empty the register, leave the safe untouched, and then shoot the store owner in the chest?” Sherlock condescended.

“He did,” Greg hung his head once more.

“Did you not have undercover officers on the scene once it was determined the killer was only striking when the actual business owner was working alone in the shop?”

“We did. But Sherlock…”

“Do you not,” Sherlock interrupted, “have security camera footage from each location, clearly showing the suspect’s face? And have you not identified the man?” Sherlock was growing increasingly agitated.

The case couldn’t be any clearer. The criminal had practically gift wrapped himself for law enforcement, yet had successfully robbed four shops, all located in one tight-knit neighborhood, and had killed all four owners, who were also very active members of the community. The businesses varied, so far he had hit a family owned market, a small café, and a florist. This evening’s disastrous attempt to put an end to his criminal career concluded with the armed robbery of a twenty-four hour Asian market, and the slaying of the beloved proprietor.

The thief-turned-murderer grew up in the neighborhood, and had a history of troubled behavior. His family no longer resided there, but many residents recognized him immediately. He had started his spree on the most prominent corner in the neighborhood, and was simply working his way down the main street, like a sadistic game of connect the dots.

Greg looked up, and Sherlock noted the color had drained from his face. His words had been harsh, but he didn’t have time to waste on such simple cases. That Greg missed his opportunity to arrest the murderer was of little consequence to Sherlock. Rather, it was yet another indictment against the effectiveness of the Met as a whole.

“Sherlock, I think…” Greg took a deep breath, “this might be one of the guys you’re after. More likely, he's not working alone, but as part of a team... Or someone is giving orders...”

Unable to contain himself, Sherlock laughed. It was a bitter, hollow sound. “You cannot be serious.”

“Please, hear me out,” Greg pleaded. “When the suspect appeared out of nowhere, robbed the place and shot the owner, my officers were stunned. They were taken completely by surprise. He ducked into the office behind the front register, and by the time the officers should have caught up to him, he had vanished. There are no stairwells, no windows, nothing.”

“Obvious,” Sherlock snorted.

“No, Sherlock, not to everyone.” Greg pulled out his mobile, and showed Sherlock a photograph of a ceiling tile that was slightly askew, “The forensics guys missed this. I was desperate. I stayed after they left. I think he came and went through the roof.”

Sherlock blinked in surprise, “ _You_ found that? Well done, Greg.”

“Yeah, thanks,” Greg shrugged uncomfortably. “There’s more though. The bullet used to kill the victim this evening was the same caliber as the first three, but instead of remaining lodged in the body, it passed clean through. The bullets are the same, but the weapon has been upgraded.”

“He’s robbed three other stores; he purchased a new weapon, or stole one.” Sherlock was losing his patience again.

“Because of the time of day that he robbed the stores, at the end of a shift, the bank deposits had been prepared for the next day, and so each till netted him only a few hundred each. The new weapon appears to be a semiautomatic; the black market value of such a weapon would be several thousand.” Greg sipped his now tepid coffee and grimaced. “It is possible he stole one; since they are illegal to own, no one would be stupid enough to report it missing. More likely though, the weapon was provided for him, which means someone has to be, at the very least, funding him. He's getting quicker, and smarter. I do think he's answering to orders and following directions."

“You may think you are helping your case of enticing me to join you, but in reality you are doing quite the opposite. By presenting the new information you’ve gathered, you have proven to me that you are in fact more competent than I originally suspected, and I am now more convinced than ever that my assistance would be of little help to you and your officers.” With that, Sherlock picked up the folder he had tossed aside, flipped to a well-worn page, and held the packet in such a way as to block Greg from his sight.

“Sherlock,” Greg sounded near desperate now.

“Stay as long as you like, _Graham._ You can finish off the coffee, but please, don’t interrupt me.”

Greg rolled his eyes, cleared his throat, and with a huff of frustration blurted out, “All four of the victims were John’s patients.”

Sherlock’s breath caught in his throat, and it took him a moment to collect his composure. He had never been so glad to have something to hide behind. He slowly lowered the folder until he and Greg were staring at each other.

“John… He was a doctor. He worked at that dull surgery. He had patients. A lot of them,” Sherlock stammered. “What does John have to do with any of this?” Even as he said the words, he was afraid to know the answer. A hundred scenarios ran through his mind, and all of them ended with the deceased man’s name being mangled and dragged through the mud. He would never allow such a travesty to happen.

“I asked Molly to examine the body of our most recent victim, and to review the notes from the previous three, just to make sure we were on the right track with the weapon. In reviewing the medical records of all four men, she noted that all four had had their last two yearly physical examinations signed off by John. I suppose that much is not so remarkable.” Greg toyed with the handle of his coffee mug.

“After I discovered the loose ceiling tile in the office, I moved out into the main part of the store, and was giving everything another look, when I saw this hanging on the wall behind the register. It was in plain sight. How I missed it, I have no idea.” Greg pulled up another photo on his mobile and handed the phone to Sherlock.

Staring back at Sherlock were several smiling faces, the most prominent, at least in Sherlock’s mind, was that of one Doctor John H. Watson. “Wha… w-what is this? When was this taken?” Sherlock stared at the photo. Somewhere in his logical mind he knew he should be studying all the faces, but there was only one face he cared about. _That_ face.

Enlarging the photo to focus on his friend, Sherlock deduced John. Pride. Joy. Excitement. His eyes looked so alive. Happy. His posture was one of accomplishment. But he wasn’t dressed as Sherlock was used to seeing him. John wore a bright yellow t-shirt that was stained and covered with paint, and equally filthy well worn denims. And was John wearing work boots? He held a pair of grimy work gloves in one hand. Finally Sherlock focused on the whole group. A dozen adults, varied in age, but all dressed in matching filthy clothes.

Sherlock looked up to see Greg watching him. “What is this?” he demanded again.

“I wasn’t sure myself. The photograph is framed, hanging on the wall with several other framed documents and a few other photos, but next to this one, taped directly on the wall, were two newspaper clippings. The first was John’s obituary." Greg paused and took a shuddering breath. "The other one was a write up about a massive neighborhood cleanup project the residents undertook, trying to drive away the crime that had taken over their streets. Simple things like cleaning up the outsides of the homes and businesses, clearing out the alleys so that criminals would have no place to hide, turning an abandoned lot into a park and community garden. But the main project appears to have been a small clinic set up in an old storefront building. It appears the project was headed up by our friend there,” Greg motioned to his mobile, still in Sherlock’s hand.

“What?” Sherlock swallowed hard. “How long ago was this? It couldn’t have been while he was living here.”

“That’s what I thought too. But then I recalled a case I responded to not quite two years ago in this same neighborhood. It was a completely different place back then. And…” Greg trailed off. He closed his eyes for a moment, and when he opened them again they were filled with sorrow. “Sherlock, John was with me when I responded to that call.”

“ _What_?” Sherlock jumped to his feet and loomed over Greg, surprising them both with the outburst. “How? Why?” For some reason beyond comprehension he was not able to articulate his thoughts, so he focused his laser exact glare at Greg in exasperation. 

“I looked back through my case notes from that day, and it appears that John had seen a patient... a, uhm, child who he suspected was being abused. The child was a repeat patient, and when he mentioned something to the caregiver, the individual in question grew agitated and began threatening John and the surgery where he was working at the time. He came by my office after his shift to show me the file. We were discussing his options…”

“Wait,” Sherlock interrupted. “Why would he go to you? No, don't get defensive. I know you are an officer of the law. But why would he not say something to me? Especially if he were in danger?” He began to pace back and forth in front of the fireplace. 

“Ah, I had a note about that too. It seems he _had_ called you during his lunch hour, but you were too busy to be interrupted. Mycroft needed you to run one of his errands. You told him you would be back in a few days, and disappeared completely.” Greg rubbed the back of his neck and frowned. “You know, pretty standard _you,_ especially for the early days of John living here.”

" _Damn Mycroft_ " Sherlock grumbled as he threw himself into his chair and slumped down low.

"Where were you, anyway?" Cocking an eyebrow, Greg stifled a chuckle at the sheer petulance before him.

With a roll of his eyes Sherlock steepled his fingers under his chin. "Two years ago? That would have been Peru... by way of North Korea..."

"Hold on..." Greg held up a hand and stared at Sherlock in disbelief. "Peru by way of North Korea? Those two countries don't have any dealing with each other. _Do_ they? God. What were you doing?"

"Ah... There was some... _Correspondence_... A, uhm tryst, or, more a dalliance really..."

"A _tryst_? What sort of errands does Mycroft send you on?" Greg's frown was one of repulsion.

"Do you _finally_ understand why I am loathe to find myself indebted to my brother?" Sherlock dropped his hands to the arms of his chair and his dark expression softened into one of contemplation. "Though that was the first case I encountered the very specific expertise of Irene Adler."

" _Adler..._ The dominatrix?" Nearly choking on a mouthful of cold coffee, Greg wrinkled his nose in mutual disgust and stood to refill his cup.

Sherlock hummed his confirmation. "I didn't meet her until much later. When John and I..." _The case. Focus on the case._ "Right. Catastrophe averted. Didn't end well for her. Back to the task at hand." With a dismissive wave of his hand (which did nothing to allay the weight that settled little by little in the pit of his gut with each reminder of John), Sherlock sat upright and tapped his foot impatiently. "You were telling me about responding to a crime scene with Jo... in this same neighborhood?"

Taking a sip of coffee, Greg took his seat in Joh... the armchair once more. "Right. Residents had reported seeing a dead body in an alleyway. No one had seen or heard anything suspicious, the body just sort of turned up. In the middle of the day." Greg took another sip and rolled his eyes at the incompetence, drawing a smirk from Sherlock. "I offered to let John ride along, since he had nothing going on with you out, thinking he might be able to offer some sort of medical insight. And at the worst, it would really just annoy Anderson, who had been especially trying that day." Sherlock chuckled.

"We arrived just after the medics. The constables who were first on the scene were reporting what they had encountered to Sally and me, and John had wandered over to watch the medics work when they realized the body was a teenage girl, and she wasn't just a body. She'd been assaulted, in _every_ sense of the word." The color had once again drained from Greg's face. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. "Left for dead, but not actually dead. The constables reported that no one had been around when they arrived. The neighbors who called, they just... They didn't check to see if... They just..." Greg flushed with anger. "God. John was furious. _Irate._ I thought I was going to have to restrain him. By that time a small crowd had gathered at the end of the alley, finally someone was paying attention, and John charged after them, screaming about the sanctity of life, and _how dare you,_ and so on, when an older man stepped out from the crowd and directly into John's face. I took one look at Sally and we both set off at a sprint. I thought for certain there were going to be fists, but then John just _stopped._ "

" _Stopped?_ " Sherlock leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees and scrutinizing every line and twitch of Greg's face.

"Stopped. The other man said something, it was so soft I couldn't hear. John nodded, and then apologized. He _apologized._ The guy put his arm around John's shoulders and led him off. He didn't even look back, but I could tell he was emotional. Very nearly wrecked." Greg and Sherlock stared at each other a moment, Greg allowing Sherlock an opportunity to let this distressing information settle. With a faint nod from Sherlock, Greg continued. "I found him later at a pub just down the street. The man from the street, an Iain McFadden, and his wife Moira, own the place. Apparently they're old family friends. Knew John's parents, or grandparents, or some such..." Greg waved his hand dismissively, a near perfect emulation of Sherlock's earlier gesture. "They hadn't seen him since his early army days. Iain was outright bragging on John, telling tall tales to anyone who would listen, and Moira was attempting to make up for several years of not feeding John up. It was... Amazing. They clearly adored him. Did he ever mention them to you?"

Sherlock's brow furrowed. He shook his head and looked away. "No. No he never mentioned anyone by that name." _Why._ Why hadn't John told him? He knew John's parents were deceased, though John never discussed the details. Sherlock had deduced much of what happened, and then confirmed everything with a bit of light hacking. But it sounded as if this Iain and Moira had been quite important to John. Why wouldn't he have mentioned them? Why wouldn't he have told Sherlock about any of this?

Or had he? 

Sherlock frowned as the heaviness in his gut from earlier spilled over into his chest, making it hard to breathe. Had John told him about his childhood? Had he ignored John (as John had so frequently accused him)? Or worse, had he heard the information and at some point deleted it? He had no recollection of deleting any information about John's past. He _thought_ he had been very thorough in his collection and storage of all things John. 

"Sherlock. _Sherlock, stop._ " Leaning forward, Greg had placed a hand on Sherlock's knee in order to break through his mental descent. Sherlock had only just brought his hands up to his head, instinctively reacting to the mounting ache of opportunities missed, before Greg had startled him back to the present. "Sherlock..."

"Greg, I..." Dropping his hands back to his lap, Sherlock closed his eyes and took a few deliberate breaths. "I'm sorry, Greg. Please continue." He leaned back in his chair and finally opened his eyes, only to see concern etched across his friend's face.

"Right." Greg stood and headed to the kitchen. 

Sherlock heard the kettle being filled and switched on. The clink of ceramic. Rattle of a drawer. The refrigerator door being opened. A groan and then the carton of week old milk being emptied and binned. It was all so familiar. Deceptively calming. _It's Greg. It's just Greg. Greg. Not John._ Not _John. Greg._

"Greg." Sherlock joined Greg in the kitchen, and leaned against the door frame as they waited for the tea to steep.

"Sherlock, I need your help with this case. This is... These people knew John. They loved him. And, they need help." Greg's face looked grim.

"When is the next hit supposed to be?"

"In two nights. And these people are stubborn. The owners won't even consider altering their hours, or having extra staff on hand. It's..." Greg chuckled despite himself. "It's no wonder John got on with them so well. Stubborn fools. The lot of them."

Sherlock stared into the mug Greg handed him. "How near to being victimized are the McFaddens?"

"Third in line after tonight." Greg put his mug down on the table. "And I'll not let that happen. Even if it kills me. Help me or not, Sherlock, but these are John's people, and..."

"I'll help." It was barely a whisper. 

"Good. That's... _Good._ I'm glad." Greg nodded. He picked up his tea and returned to the sitting room, Sherlock followed close behind.

"Did you solve that assault case? The girl in the alley?"

"Uhm, no. She didn't see her attacker's face, he had his face painted, and nobody else noticed anything. No DNA matches. No CCTV. The neighborhood was such a mess back then, people stayed to themselves just to avoid trouble."

"If the man committing these current murders is from that neighborhood, and if he follows the pattern of other criminals before him, there is a distinct possibility we may solve your cold case when we catch this man in two days." Sherlock had settle back into his chair. The warmth of the mug in his hands grounded him, and he was able to turn his mind back to the task at hand.

With a consenting hum, Greg took a long drink of his tea.

"There's something else." Sherlock leaned forward, staring at Greg with laser focus. "What else? What haven't you told me? There's something else... Some new element. More than just the murderer's new gun."

With a trembling hand, Greg motioned to his mobile where Sherlock had placed it on the arm of his chair. Sherlock handed it over, anticipation getting the better of him.

"This is... It's new. Tonight was the first. This showed up on the front of the market that was robbed earlier, on the front windows of the next target, and..." Greg blanched. "On the front of the clinic." He flipped through the photos on his mobile, and went still. When he looked back up Sherlock noticed that it wasn't just Greg's hands that were trembling any longer. He reached across and pried the mobile away from Greg only to drop the phone himself as soon as he saw the picture.

"What..." Sherlock flipped through the photos once again. And then three more times to be certain. _Graffiti. Yellow. Familiar yellow. Michigan hardcore propellant._ The message sprayed on the windows caused the world to tilt just slightly off its axis.

**BRING ME JOHN WATSON**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the cliffhanger.
> 
>  
> 
> ALSO, this note is for anyone who has read [CRUCIAL ](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4399382/chapters/9989957)... Near the end of this story Greg said "Even if it kills me." It doesn't. Take a deep breath. I swear to you, Greg lives. That's not even a spoiler. I just couldn't do that to you again.


	2. Bleeding Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"Sherlock," Greg laid his hand on Sherlock's arm. "Earlier, you said you came here looking for John. Did you... Were you serious? Did you really think he might have come back here?"_
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> _Studying Greg's face, the sorrow etched in the lines around his mouth, the dust and blood smudge on his cheek, Sherlock saw a man, his friend, who had been mourning just as he had. "I knew better than to hope. But..." He trailed off with a shrug._
> 
> _Greg nodded. "Yeah, me too."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was emotional to work through. And then, in the end, it all kind of goes to hell. Let the madness begin.

"Sherlock, I need you to just... Stay." There was a sense of urgency in the way Greg, positioned at the mouth of the alley and scanning the street and storefronts for movement, flapped his hand back behind him, indicating the necessity for Sherlock to just... stay. _Stay back. Stay close. Stay out of trouble damn it._

"Why am I here?" Greg jumped and put his hand to his holstered weapon as he spun around to face Sherlock, who had stepped, unnoticed, directly behind the DI in order to grumble his complaint.

Gasping, Greg scrubbed his free hand over his face. "God, Sherlock. What the hell?" A few tense moments passed with the two men blinking at each other in silence before Greg realized he still had his hand on his weapon. He let his arm fall limp to his side with another sigh. "I _could_ have killed you."

"Please. You're a mediocre marksman at best, which is inconsequential, really; if I were the murderer, you'd have been dead before you even turned around. Besides, we know where he's going to be." Sherlock gestured broadly to the bookstore across the street. "Which brings us back to my question. If you're not going to allow me to be where your suspect is going to present himself, in precisely one hour and twelve minutes, then _why am I here?_ "

"I have _no idea_ why you're here, Sherlock! I begged you to stay at Baker Street, didn't I?" Greg had lowered his voice to gruff whisper as he turned his attention back to the street.

"You're the one who said you needed my help with this case. I'm here. Let me help." Sherlock, maintaining a conversational volume out of sheer defiance, positioned himself directly in front of Greg and poked him in the middle of his chest with two fingers. "Or are you prepared for your incompetent undercover officers to allow your man to literally get away with murder once more?"

"Look," Greg smacked Sherlock's hand away, grabbed the front of his coat, and shoved him back into the relative cover of the alley. "I needed your help identifying potential entrance and exit routes he could take. Which you found because of your obsessive knowledge of the tunnels and passageways that run under the city."

"It's truly laughable that someone in your position _isn't_ more familiar with the infrastructure of the city you're charged with protecting." Sherlock huffed with disdain.

Ignoring the interruption, Greg pressed on. "And I'm going to need your help getting him to talk, sorting out what all of this means. What I _don't_ need is your help getting yourself, or someone else, killed just because you've got nothing else on at the moment."

A shadow of grief, unguarded and undiluted, slipped over Sherlock's face as his breath faltered and he took half a halted step back, allowing Greg an abrupt glimpse of the ache and loneliness that lay buried, hidden under the pretentious-cavalier-genius facade. Mere seconds and it was gone; sharp features schooled into contempt. A heartbeat too late and Greg knew what he had said. Worse, he knew what had been heard. Remorse pooled in his gut. "Sherlock, I didn't mean it. _You know_ I didn't mean it. I'm sorry... It's just I'm under so much pressure to end this tonight. The Chief Superintendent is breathing down my neck. And the bloody media... And I just... Sherlock, please. I'm sorry."

"You. _You_ know..." Sherlock narrowed his eyes at Greg. "You know I didn't want to work on this case. I did everything but throw you out of my flat, and even that was a near thing. But then you..." Having started a frantic pace back and forth across the width of the narrow alley, Sherlock paused long enough to direct an accusatory gesture at Greg. At the slight tremor of the nimble hand, Sherlock broke eye contact and cupped his hands in front of his mouth huffing a breath, pretending to warm them. He dropped his arms to his sides and continued his agitated pacing. " _You_ made this about... Something else. You dragged sentiment into it. You... _He_..." Sherlock nodded toward the bookstore, indicating the murderer, "made this about John. Made it personal. And you knew I wouldn't stay away. _He_ knew I wouldn't stay away. Why? _Why._ "

Palms raised in a show of frustrated imploring, Sherlock came to an abrupt halt in front of Greg. His traitorous nerves got the best of him, and the tremor in his hand returned. _Damn._ Damn _it. How did John live with... Stop. Counterproductive. Weak. Stupid. Stop. Just stop. **Damn it.**_ "Greg..." 

Sherlock shoved his hands deep into the pockets of the hideous Mackintosh raincoat he'd opted to wear in an attempt to _blend in_ with his surroundings. God he missed the Belstaff; he felt as if he'd come to the front lines without his battle armour. Add to that the emotional upheaval of this case, and Sherlock felt stripped bare. Uncomfortably, uncharacteristically exposed. It was foreign. Disorienting. He hated it.

"I don't know. _I don't know_ , Sherlock. I have no idea what this bastard's game is." Greg fished a half packet of cigarettes from his pocket and held it out to Sherlock.

Humming an acknowledgement, Sherlock shook his head. "No, thank you. I quit. Again." He tugged his left sleeve up to reveal two nicotine patches.

Huffing a laugh, Greg deftly tipped a cigarette from the pack and put it to his lips. "Me too. Again," he mumbled around the cigarette. He cursed and fumbled with the disposable lighter he'd picked up at the market earlier that evening. It took four tries, and once he finally got his cigarette lit he considered chucking the awful thing into the skip, but thought better of it. Just in case.

"He's predictable." Sherlock's pronouncement was so unexpected, yet so matter-of-fact, Greg chuckled before he could think better of it.

"Not _really._ " Greg gave Sherlock an incredulous sidelong look, flicked his cigarette, and checked the time. "I mean, sure, we know when and where he's going to hit. But there are too many other variables. And then he suddenly escalated things last time 'round." Snapping his collar up more tightly around his neck, Greg looked up at the night sky and groaned as the rain started in earnest. "Well, that's another hat ruined." After another sweeping glance up and down the street, he turned back to Sherlock and pointed at the bookstore with the cigarette between his fingers. "He's unstable. And that makes him incredibly dangerous."

With a roll of his eyes Sherlock pulled the ridiculous hood on his coat over his head and grumbled as he tugged on the drawstrings. When Greg smirked at his displeasure, Sherlock reached out, quickly snatched the half spent cigarette from between his fingers, and pulled a long drag. He savored the warmth and the nicotine for a moment, exhaled slowly, and dropped the butt in a puddle.

"Oi! What'd you do that for?"

"You were wasting it. If you're going to smoke, do it properly." Sherlock crossed his arms over his chest with an imperious flair. When Greg, with a shake of his head, offered him a cigarette the second time, he took it.

"He _is_ unstable, but that doesn't make him unpredictable. It's clear there is a modicum of intelligence behind his movements, which are clearly planned with an obvious purpose." Sherlock sniffed. "The last murder wasn't the only time he escalated his actions. Think about it. The first hit. He walked straight into the market, demanded the cash from the till, shot the owner dead, and left the same way he came. The fact that he made a second appearance is an escalation in itself, not to mention the fact that he found a hidden way _into_ the cafe before robbing and killing the owner. The third murder was committed after he had found a hidden way into the florist shop, and then planned an _alternate_ hidden exit point. Each of those three murders, and his slow escalation, earned him one thing..."

"An audience." Greg pinched the bridge of his nose and exhaled slowly.

"Precisely. The clear purpose being drawing attention. A larger audience required a grander show." Sherlock enumerated the list with his fingers. "An upgrade to his weapon. An impossible vanishing act. Alarmingly... _specific_ graffiti." Taking a long, slow drag from his cigarette, Sherlock strode purposely forward until he was standing just shy of the mouth of the alley. Casting his own sweeping gaze up and down the street (there was no question in Greg's mind that Sherlock noticed infinitely more in this one glance than he had in the past two hours), Sherlock nodded toward the bookstore across the street, Greg stepped up directly to his right.

"Two nights ago, the murder in the Asian market," Sherlock turned laser focused eyes briefly to the building directly to his left (with a furrowed brow, Greg watched Sherlock watching a couple of undercover officers step into the market), the exterior wall of which lined one side of the alley,"set the stage for tonight. I don't think the end game was complete devastation of this neighborhood." He turned to face Greg then. "It won't matter if you take him into custody tonight or not. It all comes to a head here. In..."

"Fifty minutes," Greg supplied.

"Fifty minutes." Sherlock nodded and took one last pull from his cigarette.

"What does that mean?" Greg glanced at his watch once more, and lit another cigarette. Sherlock passed on the offer of another.

"Look at the setup. He _is_ going to enter through the hidden tunnel that connects the dry cellars of those three buildings." Sherlock pointed first at the bookstore, then right to Iain McFadden's pub, and lastly the pizzeria just beyond the pub. "He'll use the tunnel for his entrance tonight, out of necessity, but then he'll also already know he won't be able to use it as his exit, nor at all again after tonight. The tunnel will be too heavily surveilled. And without causing significant property damage, there are no other _hidden_ entrances or exits from those buildings. I searched them all thoroughly. He, or rather, the one dictating his actions, as I believe you were correct in your conclusion, will have done the same research I've done."

"First, that's probably the nicest thing you've ever said to me, and I'll leave it go at that." Greg smirked. Sherlock rolled his eyes, though the corner of his mouth ticked slightly up. "But, when did you investigate the neighborhood? I was here most of the day yesterday, and all day today, and I never saw you. Not once."

With a scoff Sherlock rolled his eyes. There was a burst of chatter across the street and both men watched in silence as a small group of five women, all of diverse ages and varying levels of inebriation surged from the bookstore. They laughed and urged each other on as they made their way next door to the pub. 

The two outsiders shared a bewildered look and Greg shrugged his shoulders. "Book club."

" _Book_ club? What sort of book club is _that?_ " Perplexed, Sherlock frowned.

"Eh. The kind my ex use to like. Everyone pretends that they read the chosen hot title, I think Sally said these ladies are reading some romance novel with vampires, or zombies, or some such rot." Greg scrunched his face in disgust as he peered through the bookstore window and caught a glance of Sally, a half glass of wine in one hand while she massaged her forehead with the other. Even Greg could tell she was struggling to stay engaged in conversation with the aged hippie who had literally talked her into a corner. "They come and they natter on about significant others, the neighbor's dirty laundry, celebrity nonsense... hydrangeas. They eat these little... fancy... sandwiches, or expensive cheese, and drink wine. A _lot_ of wine."

"Hydrangeas?" One eyebrow cocked, Sherlock dragged his gaze from the rather enjoyable sight of Sally Donovan suffering and turned it to Greg.

"I never said it made sense." Greg checked his watch, shrugged, and lit the last cigarette. "Forty-six minutes. As far as I can tell, very little discussion of literature ever happens."

"Ah." Sherlock breathed in deeply as he and Greg both looked up and down the street for any more movement. No one else had left the bookstore, but of the dozen or so people still inside, Sherlock recognized six undercover officers, including Donovan, the owner and her partner. The owner of the shop actually owned the whole building. Her partner kept track of the finances, and the two women lived together in the flat above the shop. It was all very domestic and... unremarkable.

And about to be violated by a thief on a killing spree with a one hundred percent success rate.

"None of the other owners were women." Having stated the obvious, Greg glanced at Sherlock and awaited reproach. Sherlock merely hummed in agreement and turned his eyes back across the street. "Will that deter the killer, you think?"

"No. Though I do not believe his attempt will be successful tonight. Nor will it be heartfelt." 

"All right, I'll bite." Greg crossed his arms over his chest with a huff. "Gimme."

"Aside from the fact that Donovan looks positively murderous at the moment, and would like nothing more than to inflict bodily harm on someone... I'm here." Sherlock did not divert his gaze from the bookstore, eyes darting to take in every detail.

Greg did nothing to conceal his laugh. "Come off it. That's a bit presumptuous, even for you."

"I fail to see the humor." Sherlock sighed. "It was his, or rather, his employer's, obvious intention to draw me here. That fact has been made blatantly obvious." Sherlock nodded in the direction of the bookstore; both he and Greg stared at the bright yellow graffiti. **BRING ME JOHN WATSON** screamed back at them from the front of the bookstore. "We both saw them scrub the graffiti away yesterday. And yet it has returned, somehow unnoticed, despite the added police presence. There is nothing presumptuous in recognizing the fact that the killer's goal was to draw me here."

Greg flicked away his cigarette butt and closed his eyes. "Yeah. Yeah, I know."

"You asked when I investigated the neighborhood. Right after you left Baker Street yesterday morning." Brow furrowed, Sherlock looked up at the sky. Satisfied that the rain had ceased, he pulled back his hood and shivered at the sudden exposure to the cold and wind.

"Good god, that was 5:00 AM! Have you been home since?" Greg clamped a hand on Sherlock's shoulder and turned him so that they were facing one another, fully taking in for the first time the light scattering of stubble (enviably, it was barely noticeable, but there all the same), the deep purple bags under his eyes, and the way his face creased across his brow and around his mouth in exhaustion. "Damn it, Sherlock. Of course you haven't gone home. What the _hell_ have you been doing?"

"I..." Sherlock faltered, taken aback by Greg's distressed tone. "I found the tunnels." He moved to turn back to face the bookstore, but Greg added a hand to Sherlock's other shoulder and held him fast.

" _Sherlock._ "

"Greg, I had to. I had to come here... I couldn't..." Sherlock closed his eyes and swallowed. 

"You didn't _use_ did you? Please," Greg gripped his shoulders more tightly, "tell me you didn't use. Sherlock..."

"No! I did _not_ use. Not that it would be any of your business if I had," Sherlock snapped in response and ran a hand through his unkempt, hood mussed, rain soaked hair. _This is Greg. He'll understand. He understands. Tell him._ He released a shuddering breath and stared down at the puddle they were standing in, unwilling... _unable_... to meet Greg's gaze.

"I was looking for John."

Greg's release of breath sounded as if he'd been punched in the gut. His face reflected the same. "Sherlock. What..." Barely more than a whisper, his voice cracked.

"Did you..." Breathing rapidly, Sherlock's pace was alarmingly manic. Greg's hands were still on his shoulders, and Sherlock reached up and grasped his forearms in an attempt to ground himself. "Did you know? There are parts of this neighborhood where the streets are designated for pedestrians only? And they're paved with cobblestones. Cobblestones, Greg. It's all very provincial. And the homes. They're all neat little white and brick houses with tidy little gardens and stone walls with brightly colored fences. And people stand by their brightly colored fences and talk to each other. They greet the postman. And they offer strangers a cuppa. And when they... When they find out that you're the poor sod who use to be the flatmate of the illustrious John Watson, they try to hug you, and invite you into their pretty little houses stuffed full of kitsch and memories so they can tell you all about the man you thought you already knew. But you didn't. Not really. Because he was too good, and you mistreated him and took him for granted, and now he's gone. And he doesn't deserve any of that, because he deserves to live in a smart little white house with a pretty wife and babies and a cat, no a dog, _fine_ , both, and a well-kept garden, because John's garden would be the most well-kept garden, and a stone wall with a blue fence. And he'd walk to his clinic. And coach a children's football team. And watch matches at the pub with people who _actually_ know him, and care about him. _Adore_ him. That's the word you used, isn't it? And... and..."

"Sherlock. _Sherlock_ stop." With a quick shake and a commanding tone, Greg managed to halt Sherlock's frenzied tirade. "Sherlock, what is this? Where is this coming from?"

Sherlock had been presented too much data, had too little sleep (none), and it had been over forty-eight hours since he’d had more than tea or nicotine. His mind wouldn’t slow down. Wouldn’t stop. Couldn’t rest. He’d torn through the self-imposed barricades on the space he’d dedicated to John in the mind palace, and left the rooms in shambles as he frantically searched for previously stored knowledge to correspond with the new stories and memories he’d learned. There hadn’t been much overlap. Not nearly enough parallel existed between the new secondhand accounts and what he’d been bestowed the honour of acquiring in person. With frenetic obsession he’d attempted to catalogue and file away the newly learned information.

“John never should have been at Bart’s that day.” _And who's to blame for that?_ A voice that sounded remarkably like Mycroft taunted from the back of his mind. Closing his eyes tight, Sherlock released a shuddering breath. 

"Neither one of you had any way of knowing Moriarty was up to something that day, yeah?" Greg shook him gently. "Sherlock?"

Choking back a sob, Sherlock swayed. "...did..." A mumbled, barely audible response.

"No." Short. Disbelieving. _Angry._ Shaking his head in denial, Greg repeated himself with force. " _No._ Sherlock..."

"I didn't know... Not about the bombs. But there was," finally lifting his head, a tear tracked down Sherlock's cheek as his eyes met Greg's, "a plan. John was supposed to be well away. It was meant to be me. _I_ was suppose to..."

"Damn it, Sherlock." Greg pulled his hands from Sherlock's shoulders and moved to take a step back. Sherlock tightened his grip on Greg's forearms. " _Damn it._ Damn these bloody games. What the _hell_ were you thinking?" That Greg hadn't screamed in his face, or worse, was a testament to the control the man was demonstrating at the moment. More than a few undercover officers stepped out of the shadows to peer at the confrontation in the alley.

With a quick shake of his head, Greg broke away from Sherlock's grip, leaving the younger man standing bereft and broken, just long enough to signal _all clear_ , sending a dozen people scurrying back into their hiding spots as they re-holstered their weapons. He checked his watch and cleared his throat. "Thirty minutes." Stepping directly back into Sherlock's personal space and breathing hard, Greg searched his face for any trace of subterfuge or deceit. 

"Right. You hate repetition, and there just _isn't_ enough time, so listen to me good Sherlock. If John suspected that something was up, and you know he did -- no one ever gave him enough credit -- there is no way in hell he wasn't going to follow you into that hospital. And as far as he was concerned, that's exactly where he belonged. I am sure of it. He made his choice. No more of this _he was too good,_ or _he deserved better_ rubbish..."

"He belonged _here,_ " Sherlock sniffed and made an abortive gesture toward the street, "with people who actually _could_ give him the credit he was due."

" _Stop._ He didn't come here after the army, did he? If he belonged here, why didn't he come back? He found you instead." Greg paused, and his features softened. "I bet not one of these pretty, kitschy little houses has livers, kidneys, or even a single thumb in their refrigerators. John would've hated that."

Sherlock snorted a startled sort of desperate laugh. "Wha... No... I'm not in crisis. Stop trying to use diversionary tactics on me." He shook his head and wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. "John hated the body parts."

"He always made a fuss about them, but I think he secretly loved it. He _was_ a doctor after all." Greg winked and took a calming breath. "I always imagined him sitting at the kitchen table, diagnosing kidney lesions and brain decomposition, while you were off doing god knows what, content to let you bluster on, just as long as he had a place to belong. And he did. At Baker Street. With you. Everyone says he was good for you, but you were good for him too, Sherlock."

"Greg..." Sherlock froze mid-thought. He glanced quickly at McFadden's pub and then back to Greg. " _You._ " He grabbed Greg in an awkward embrace. "You're brilliant." Shoving Greg quickly back again, he checked the time. "I have twenty-two minutes. _More_ than sufficient." Sherlock started to sprint out from the alley, but Greg managed to catch his arm.

Stunned, Greg blinked and frowned. "Wait... What? Where are you going? You can't leave _now._ "

"John didn't come back here after the army. _Why_ didn't John come back here?" The distress of seconds before completely melted away, replaced by intensity typically reserved for the most challenging cases. "I need to talk to Iain McFadden." Pulling his arm away from Greg, Sherlock jogged across the street.

"Twenty minutes, Sherlock! Are you really going to miss this?" Greg called after him. Sherlock only raised his hand in a dismissive wave as he ducked into the pub. Exhaling deeply, Greg caught Sally's eye as she watched from the window of the bookstore. Greg shrugged and shook his head. Sally cocked an eyebrow and mouthed the word _freak_ in response.

The door leading into McFadden's was solid wood, heavy with brass fixtures and chipped green paint, and squealed cheerfully every time it was opened. It was _absolutely_ ridiculous that a squeaky door should sound cheerful, but to Sherlock's astonishment, it truly did. And it matched the surprisingly jovial tone of the patrons within the pub. At least, they _were_ jovial until, with hushed whispers and more than a few elbows to ribs, the place grew silent as people began to realize _who_ had entered the establishment.

Sherlock scanned the faces of the patrons, many he recognized from his two days of exploring the neighborhood. A few faces stood out from the photograph Greg had showed him of John. He cleared his throat and nodded once, then turned quickly to hang his raincoat on one of the pegs by the door. The room remained still with the exception of the jukebox droning some tune Sherlock didn't recognize in the corner.

The double doors from the kitchen in the back were flung open, and a rush of warm, humid air tinged with the scent of fried grease swirled in around the boisterous man carrying a tray. "Ah, it's about time! Been hearing 'bout ya for so long, and now you've been traipsing all over my neighborhood. I was beginnin' to think you were avoiding me." He grabbed a basket off the tray, and then passed the tray off to a waitress. Motioning to a stool, the man placed the basket, which appeared to contain fish and chips, on the bar. "Sit."

With none of his usual grace, Sherlock half stumbled obediently onto the stool and gawked down at the food in front of him. "I... Uhm..." Sherlock swallowed and looked the man up and down. _Mid seventies. As tall as Sherlock. Full head of white hair -- had once been auburn, as indicated by the stray red hairs in the man's neat beard. Broad, strong build. Kind, welcoming face. Clothing... Hmm. Dressed exactly as John always did._ Sherlock's mouth quirked up into a tiny smile. "Mister McFadden?"

Iain McFadden's laugh was the most delightful, thunderous laugh Sherlock had ever heard. And contagious. The awkward silence of the pub was suddenly broken, and the patrons returned to their lively conversations. "Oi. Deduced that, did ya?" He slid a glass of dark lager across the bar to Sherlock. "Call me Iain, Mister..."

"Sherlock. Just Sherlock." He reached out his hand and Iain shook it heartily.

"Johnny always said you were good. _The best,_ he said." Iain punctuated the statement by slapping the bar top. Sherlock jumped in his seat, then ducked his head to hide the uncharacteristic blush blooming there.

"He always did have questionable taste." Chancing a joke at his late friend's expense, Sherlock took a sip of the lager and almost choked when Iain slapped him on the shoulder with another laugh. 

"Too right. Though I see you're putting some of his fashion sense to work tonight." With a nod, Iain indicated the cream colored cable knit jumper Sherlock was wearing. 

In an attempt to blend in with the residents, Sherlock had not only forgone the Belstaff, but also his standard tailored wear, in exchange for worn denims and tatty trainers he wore when disguised as one of his homeless network. He'd also decided to wear one of John's jumpers, and had convinced himself it was because it made for a solid disguise, as well as practical. Unassuming and warm. So what if the sleeves were just a bit too short, the shoulder seams a tad too broad, and the scent of an aftershave that was not his own lingered in the fibers? "That obvious?"

"I'd know my Moira's handiwork anywhere." With a wistful smile Iain turned to pour a drink, and then ducked to pull a package from under the bar. "That jumper was the last one she ever made. Too bad she never got to meet you. She would've liked you. I can tell."

Sherlock ducked his head once more at the kind words. He didn't have any right to them. "I... I'm sorry. I..."

"Don't be." Voice gone soft, Iain laid his hand on Sherlock's wrist. Sherlock looked up to meet his gaze. "I'm not. She lived a damn good life." He paused and patted Sherlock's hand. "They _both_ did." Sherlock could only blink and nod in response. "You believe that, lad. Stop beating yourself up. I can see it in your eyes. Doubting yourself is one thing, but don't you ever doubt him. I knew him his whole life. If John Watson was anything, he was honest and he was stubborn. He never did a damn thing he didn't want to do. And he _wanted_ what he had with you... All of it."

Releasing a shuddering breath, Sherlock couldn't help but think he ought to feel some sort of embarrassment over his timidity. He _ought_ to have been outraged that his transport was responding to his obviously weak sentimental side. But what he actually felt was too overwhelming to put into words. John had wanted their life. The mess. The chaos. The frustration, anger, and fear. The exhaustion. The inappropriately morbid humor. The absurd. The quiet boring times. The tea and takeaway. The body parts in the refrigerator. He had wanted it all. And he had wanted it with Sherlock.

"H-he talked... about _me_? With you?" Sherlock pressed the fingers of the hand not covered by Iain's to his lips. 

Iain laughed. "Ah, he never shut up about ya, lad."

"He never... I didn't know about you. I would've liked to come here. With him." Sherlock looked down at Iain's large hand covering his, and then up to the man's eyes and allowed himself to smile at the warmth he saw there. _So like John._ He quickly checked the clock on the wall. Six minutes.

Humming in agreement, Iain patted Sherlock's hand once more and slid the package he'd pulled from under the bar across to Sherlock. "Right. I know you're actually here on business, but I think Johnny'd come back and haunt my arse if I forgot to give you this." Brows furrowed and lips pursed, Sherlock picked up the package wrapped in brown butcher paper and entirely too much tape. "He was adamant that if you ever came here without him, you get that package. It was the strangest thing..."

Without waiting for Iain to finish, Sherlock tore the paper away and the paused, eyes wide in confusion. Books. A filthy old composition book and ragged paperback copy of _The Divine Comedy._ He flipped through the pages of Dante, noting John had left no inscription on the inside cover as most were wont to do when giving a book as a gift. The copyright of the edition was highlighted in yellow. 1974. _Odd._ Ah, but there. A folded piece of paper marking the first page of _Inferno,_ the first section of the poem. _Very odd. Or was it? Marking the part of the poem about hell in a book one was giving as a gift_ did _seem a bit unusual._ Sherlock shook open the folded piece of paper and his breath caught in his throat as he caught a glimpse of familiar scrawl.

 

_Sherlock,_

_If you're reading this, that means one of two things:_  
_1\. You found the place I go to hide when I need a break from you. Nosy git._  
_2\. Some big bad got the better of me. If that's the case, I hope it was_  
_quick and not too awful for you. And not too dull. We wouldn't want that._

_I'm smart enough to know it's probably the latter. And for that, I am truly,_  
_sincerely sorry. I know what losing you would do to me. I can only hope_  
_my friendship has meant a fraction of the same to you. You're the best_  
_friend I've ever had. You are a_ good _man, Sherlock Holmes. And_  
_I never stopped believing in you._

_I know you're probably cross with me that I never introduced you to Iain._  
_This place is a part of me, and there are things in my past I needed to make_  
_restitution for. I wanted to make things right before I brought you here, so_  
_I could show you this part of my history, and actually be proud of what you_  
_would see. Iain knows my past as well as I know it myself. You have my_  
_permission to ask all. And I've included a journal I kept for a few years when_  
_was young. Everything's there. Please don't hate me._

_I don't know what else to say, Sherlock, besides thank you. And that hardly_  
_seems adequate. These two years (only two years? I feel as though I've_  
_known you forever!) have been the best of my life. I have loved every moment._  
_And since I'm gone, and I don't have to look you in the eye, I guess it's safe to_  
_say, I do love you, you know? Right. Okay._

_-John_

_P.S.- I know Iain gave you food. It's what he does. You like it. It's the same_  
_fish and chips I brought home every time you were in a mood. Heavy on_  
_on the salt, no vinegar. It'll be the same, anytime you want it. I know you._  
_You probably haven't had anything for days, and are about to pass out, so just_  
_eat the damn food. Please._

"Idiot." Sherlock whispered as he blinked back the tears that threatened. He turned the page over, and on the back John had written a list of some sort. "Beautiful Day, 038B. A Day In The Life, 007E. Dream On, 020N. Iain, does this list mean anything to you?" Sherlock held the paper up so Iain could inspect the back.

"See, I knew something strange was going on when Johnny came in here. He rushed in that day, barely said hello, and headed straight for the jukebox. Those are all song titles, and their selection numbers." Iain frowned, and shrugged. "He spent a few minutes working on that, wrapped it all up, made me swear I would give that to you and no one else, and then rushed back out. That was... It was the last time..." Iain carded his hand through his hair and turned his face away from Sherlock.

"When? _When_ did he give this to you?" Sherlock stood and placed both hands on the bar. "Iain, I need to know, when did John give you these things?" Heart pounding and mind racing, Sherlock noted the time. It was 9:37, two minutes past the time of the previous murders, but Sherlock had heard no gun shots, no commotion from next door. He was content to stay where he was until he got the answers he needed.

"It was _that_ day. The day of the..." Pounding the top of the bar with his fist, Iain turned and poured himself a whiskey. "Does all that _mean_ something?"

 _That_ day? The day John was killed? That meant something. It _had_ to mean something. But when had John had time to come here? Once he had met with Sherlock in the lab at Bart's they hadn't separated. Not until John left when he got the call about Mrs. Hudson. But that meant...

It was a mad notion, verging entirely on the fantastic, that it seemed as if Sherlock's world shattered in that moment. He would one day remember thinking he'd spent entirely too much time with John and his hopeless romanticism. But that sound, that explosive pop and the audible sound of something being fractured, in those first few seconds, did not register in his already taxed mind as anything other than an overactive imagination. The instinct to take cover did not manifest until Iain dropped his tumbler, which shattered as it hit the edge of the bar, and coughed something that sounded very much like, "Oh."

"Holmes?" Sally Donovan stepped through the gaping hole where the large glass window had once been, gun drawn and eyes wide. Sherlock realized then that people all around him were screaming. He stood from his crouched position and clambered over the bar.

"Sally, get the medics over here now!" With a roar of heartbroken frustration, Sherlock pulled Iain from his unnatural slump against the bar to lay him out flat on the floor. There was so much blood. Sherlock was kneeling in it. Iain's grey jumper was stained crimson. Sherlock's hands... _Neck wound. Clean. Through and through. Professional. From a high angle. The victim_ (because that's what he was now. Not Iain. Victim.) _would have had no chance of survival. This was not the work of their murderer. His superior, perhaps. A trained sniper. But where the hell were the snipers Mycroft had promised?_ He wiped his hands on his already blood soaked denims and noticed that John's jumper was stained with it too. There was no reason to conceal the trembling of his hand now as he reached out to close Iain's eyes.

When the medics rushed in Sherlock stumbled from behind the bar and out through the broken window to the damp wet night.

"Holmes... Bloody hell..." Sally gasped as she stopped short a few paces ahead of him.

"It's fine. I'm fine. Not mine." Sherlock waved his hand dismissively and tried to focus on the knot of people surrounding the front of the bookstore. "What..."

"It's our guy. The murderer. He's... Damn it, Holmes. He's asking for you. Out of his mind. I'm sorry." Holstering her gun, Sally closed the distance between the two of them, and took Sherlock by the elbow. "You okay? If you can't do this, I'd like nothing more than to put this monster down myself."

"No, I think I'd relish nothing more." With a snarl, Sherlock pushed his way through the crowd of undercover officers that had surrounded the suspect. "Oh, for god's sake, how does he still have a weapon?"

"Had it hidden under his coat. He dropped the murder weapon when he realized he wasn't getting anywhere near the owner, and made a run for it. He only got this far, but he's been waving that gun around, it's a semiautomatic just like the other one, and demanding to talk to you." Sally explained as she reached for her gun once more.

"Mister Sherlock Holmes!" The young man shouted, the tone of his voice just slightly hysterical. "So nice of you to finally join us!"

"So sorry to inconvenience you. As you can see, I was dealing with a mess your partner made." Steeling himself, Sherlock stepped in front of the man, palms up to reveal as much of the blood stains as possible, and leveled his laser focus gaze on him. _Early twenties, possibly a few years older. Age concealed by military style fatigue face paint. That was new._ Sherlock glanced at Greg who nodded once in understanding. _Sloppy appearance, trying to look like someone who could have been living rough. Freshly laundered clothing. Clean fingernails. A bit heavy on the gaudy jewelry and cologne._

"Partner?" The man's laugh was nasal and terrified. "Could it be? The great Sherlock Holmes is mistaken? I don't work with a partner. This is _all_ me!" Gesturing to the four other businesses he'd robbed, the man took a cocky step toward Sherlock and waved his gun. "The name is Sy. Maybe you've heard of me."

"Nope." Popping the _p_ for effect, Sherlock steepled his hands under his chin. "Sy." He over-enunciated the name just to irritate the younger man. "It would appear, then, if you're not working with a partner, _someone_ has taken an interest in your territory." Sherlock jerked his head to the right and Sy looked over just as the medics were wheeling the sheet draped gurney to the ambulance. "Or, perhaps the person you're working _for_ is through with you, and has moved on to bigger and better things."

"No!" Sy screamed. "No, I'm part of the big picture, Holmes. You have no idea! There is a storm coming, and when it does, everything and everyone around you is going to fall. And you won't even know what's happening until it's too late..."

"Oh, bravo." Clapping his hands mockingly slow, Sherlock taunted Sy. "Lovely speech. Did that come prepared for you in the minion handbook, or did you think it up all on your own? Which one of Moriarty's lap dogs do you report to? You do realize he's dead."

"Moriarty?" With a scoff, Sy leveled his gun at Sherlock. "Oh, you're going to _long_ for the days of Moriarty." He took a single step forward, and with a manic glint in his eyes flipped off the safety. 

Sherlock felt the heat of the sniper bullet pass over his right shoulder and exhaled sharply as he watched the impact knock Sy off his feet. Blood spread out across his upper chest. An impossible shot. On weak legs Sherlock turned scanning the tops of the buildings. There was nothing. Then Greg was at his side, arm around his shoulder, helping him stand. "Greg..." Sherlock buried his face in his hands and leaned against his friend, trying to get his bearings when an impossible voice cried out his name. Sherlock looked once more to the rooftops, but Greg glanced over at Sy.

"The storm _is_ coming." Sy manged to rasp out as he raised his gun. Greg threw Sherlock to the ground just as Sy put the barrel of the gun in his mouth and pulled the trigger. 

Greg blanched, then wrapped his arms hard around Sherlock's upper arms and torso. "Sherlock. Sherlock, you're okay. It's over." With Sally's help he managed to haul Sherlock up to his feet.

"That was John. It was John. Did you hear him? John is here." Sherlock stared, unblinking at Greg. "That shot. Impossible shot. But John could do it. It was... I have to find him." 

"Someone was a very good shot. And I heard someone shout. But Sherlock, John is... He's not here. He's gone, Sherlock. You're under stress, and exhausted. I think you're going into shock. You're not..."

"Get off me!" Shoving Greg and Sally away, Sherlock lurched toward the twenty-four hour laundry across the street. That rooftop had the best vantage point. Correct trajectory height. _John._

Sherlock took two more steps before he once again felt Greg throw himself over his body and they both crashed the ground. The night sky was ablaze and the explosion rocked the street under them.

"What the _bloody hell_ is going on here?" Greg shouted as shoved himself up off the ground. " _Damn_ it!" he screamed and then didn't try to stop the sobs the rose from his chest. Sherlock managed to sit up enough to look in the direction of the fire. 

John's clinic.

Sherlock _had_ been wrong. Apparently the goal had been complete devastation. "Greg..." Sherlock managed a hoarse whisper.

"In a minute, Sherlock." Struggling to regain his composure, Greg was shouting orders into his mobile.

"Detective Inspector Lestrade?" Two men stepped out of the shadows of the alley where Greg and Sherlock had been standing less than an hour ago. Sherlock pushed himself up to stand next to Greg.

"Oh, what now?" Greg scrubbed his hand over his face.

"We have a report for you, sir. Mr. Holmes instructed us to find you." One of the men responded.

"You Mycroft's guys?" Greg narrowed his eyes at them, and Sherlock hummed in response.

"We are sir. We're to report that the man who shot and killed Iain McFadden was one Colonel Sebastian Moran. The threat has been neutralized, and home base has dispatched a team to collect Moran's body." The man who had done all the talking, Lieutenant Hall, if the patches on his uniform were to be believed, flicked away the cigarette butt between his fingers.

Sherlock inhaled a sharp breath, but remained silent. "That it?" Greg asked, warily eyeing the two men, "or do you care to share who took that impossible shot at our murder suspect?"

The two men glanced at each other, and the second man, Captain Rodgers, finally spoke up. "We have no involvement with the matters of the Met. That's your concern, sir." He nodded and the two men turned away and disappeared into the shadows once more.

"Moran." Sherlock finally released the breath he was holding. "Why was _he_ here? If Sy isn't working for one of Moriarty's men, what interest could Moran have possibly had with this whole affair?" Snatching Lieutenant Hall's cigarette butt from the pavement, Sherlock held his hand out toward Greg. Greg stared back, confounded. "Evidence bag," Sherlock huffed impatiently.

" _What?_ What are you on about?" Greg dug in his pockets but came back empty handed.

With a roll of his eyes, Sherlock leapt into deduction mode. "Those two men. They aren't Mycroft's standard issue goons. His usual snipers wear a very plain, very nondescript black flight suit. No patches or identification at all. _Those_ men were very clearly wearing a military style, albeit all black, uniform, all the way down to their combat boots. Their ranks and names were displayed. Their uniforms also bore a very unique patch, one that I do not recognize. Lieutenant Hall, whose DNA I now possess, had a patch depicting a hooded Grim Reaper, though instead of bearing a scythe, he was holding a rifle. Captain Rodgers, the second man, clearly an American of southern descent based on his accent, wore a patch depicting the same hooded Grim Reaper, but instead of the rifle, he held the medical Rod of Asclepius. Quite an interesting juxtaposition, really. Hall is a sniper, Rodgers a medic. Now, the fact that Mycroft would send a military unit to apprehend Moran, rather than his usual sniper team is... _significant._ "

"And, Moran is... who?" Greg pinched the bridge of his nose.

"Moriarty's second in command." Sherlock sighed in disdain. "He was on my _to eliminate_ list. I was rather looking forward to crossing that one off. Bloody Mycroft."

"Right. Okay. I..." Greg shook his head, and his shoulders slumped. "Sherlock, I'm done. I can't take any more tonight. The emergency crews are taking over the fire. I think..."

"I..." Sherlock let his face settle into a look of resignation and he glanced at the cigarette butt in his hand. "Let me collect my things from the pub, and then we can go." He returned a moment later, wearing the ridiculous raincoat, the cigarette butt wrapped in a napkin, and John's books tucked under his arm. 

"Sherlock," Greg laid his hand on Sherlock's arm. "Earlier, you said you came here looking for John. Did you... Were you serious? Did you really think he might have come back here?"

Studying Greg's face, the sorrow etched in the lines around his mouth, the dust and blood smudge on his cheek, Sherlock saw a man, his friend, who had been mourning just as he had. "I knew better than to hope. But..." He trailed off with a shrug.

Greg nodded. "Yeah, me too. I was ashamed to admit it, but it was there. That hope." Greg led the way to his car, but stopped to shake his head in disbelief at the clinic. "It kinda feels like we lost him all over again tonight, you know? In all this mess." He sniffed and blinked back a few tears, then turned abruptly to unlock the car.

Sherlock took another look across the rooftops and hummed in acknowledgement, but remained silent as he slid into the car.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The songs aren't just for nothing. We'll get there. Because, as much as I deny it, I guess I am a bit of a sadist.


End file.
